The Gemini Age: Book One

[18-3] Gemini Soul - Part Three

    Ashburn House was a calm haven in a city brimming with anxious fury, or so Byron Farron explained whenever one of his children asked to have guests over. To invite outsiders in for tea, to host a celebration dinner, or to meet somebody just outside the house were all too grievous threats to Ashburn's sacred peace. Silence engendered efficiency, Skye had heard early in her life, and she had received the lecture enough times to know her father was committed to its meaning.

    This made the incessant clobber of feet on the staircases outside her room all the more alien. Since Skye had woken up tucked in her bed, shuffling and thudding tossed wood onto the fire fuelling the throbbing pain in her head. A few minutes of feigning sleep brought no respite from the noise, every set of steps accompanied by bellowed syllables in a rough-hewn voice.

    With a strained groan, Skye threw off her duvet and pushed herself off the bed. The first surprise was the flash of skin that hid under her covers, for where she expected to find the muggy grey of the Nomad's fatigues, she saw the smooth cream tones of her bare legs. Her arms were exposed too, though the jolt of pain through her body sent her tumbling to the floor before she noticed the raw scar racing up her left arm. Clutching the sore limb, Skye roused herself to her feet with a slew of breathless sounds.

    Her skin was tender to the touch, yet it was not burned as much as it was overexerted, judging by the tightness in her joints. In the corner of her room lay a pile of tattered, filth-streaked clothing that claimed to be her old uniform. An entire sleeve of the jacket was missing, and she saw her hand flash past the holes that poked through the trousers. Skye smiled as she tossed the garments back onto the floor, never to be worn again.

    As she looked for her phone to check the time, the rush of feet and mouths beyond her door fell to a feeble trickle. Skye peered through the crack in her curtains in time to watch the stream of visitors spew forth from the front of the house, joining the sea of others swilling in the streets of the estate. Their dress declared them as Nomads, but nothing in their behaviour clarified what business they had at the Farron's home.

    Skye passed her full-length mirror as she tried to leave her room and hesitated. The injury to her arm blazed in the slightest traces of light, and the idea of seeming hurt or weak in front of Nomads was too much for her to bear. The sleeves of her red flannel covered the markings well, and the hem spread down the flanks of her black t-shirt and shorts like plated armour against any number of hulking gang members. Tugging the loose cuffs of her shirt over her wrists, she opened her door.

    Nobody lay on the other side. The bones of the staircase were silent now she stood among them, and air swirled over the hardwood floor to grip her ankles with its chill. Around her, the flat surfaces of the other bedroom doors blocked her searching eyes. Shivering with uncertainty, Skye patted her way to the unlit lamps of the banister and set her foot on the first step.

    Partway down the stairs, the hairs on Skye's neck pricked up at the sound of nearby voices. "Things change, Father. Either the way you work has to change with them, or you do." It was Sam, but not as she had ever heard him. His usual affability swept further away with each sharp syllable, and in its place stood a cool superiority that detached itself from all around it.

    "The way I work has brought this family better fortune than anything you can imagine!" Her father's voice sent shockwaves through Skye's spine, forcing her down to her knees on the steps. Byron had never been an affectionate father, yet such coolness was new even to him. "What have you done, arrogant boy? What have you achieved? You've done nothing beyond disrespecting me and disgracing yourself with this petulant display!"

    "And it wasn't petulant of you to send your own children to the scummiest places on the island? To keep secrets as large as building a private army for your own ends?" Screeching chair legs cut off Sam's voice, placing the conversation in the dining room where wooden furniture met hard flooring. "I can take your anger, but Skye? Leave her out of this, Father!"